


Dynamite

by starlight_firelight



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coma, F/F, Fluff, Hospitals, Non-Linear Narrative, Period-Typical Homophobia, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-24 09:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18163541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_firelight/pseuds/starlight_firelight
Summary: Maria finds a box of photos. Carol falls comatose. The world splinters like glass.





	Dynamite

**Author's Note:**

> This won't be entirely medically accurate or historically accurate but I'm studying Welsh mythology and astrophysics and things like near history and the actual human body are far out of my league.

Maria Rambeau has a box of photos in her closet. Three-hundred and forty-two of them are of Carol Danvers.

 

She has photos of her when she was happy—ice cream, planes, leather, Monica, sleep, hair, Maria.

 

She has photos of her when she was sad—knives, blood, scars, men, planes, Maria.

 

She has photos of her when she is nothing—coma, Maria, coma, coma, coma, crash site.

**1989 ******

It was like any other normal day. This is a trend seen throughout times when inadvertent bad things happen--a calm before the storm. 

maria woke up at five in the morning on the dot, as you do. She stumbled over to the coffee pot, pushed aside the cat, poured herself a bit of coffee and made herself some oatmeal.  
At six, she felt awake enough to struggle through waking Carol up. They had to be out and ready to go in an hour, tops.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They got in the plane. Maria was always co-pilot. Carol lived to fly and flew to live.  
  
The engine blew out after about half an hour of flight--Maria suspects a bird flew into the turbine engine. It started on fire first, and they fell down.  
  
hit the ground.  
  
Maria was okay. She pulled herself out of the wreckage, noting a bruise. She had been trained not to panic in these situations. Carol, however, was not okay.  
  
The plane hit the ground nose-first, sending shards of glass and metal directly at and into Carol. She was slumped over the control panel, blood dripping from torn cloth to bent metal to rusty sand.  
  
  
Maria vomited, as one is want to do, pulled out her communicator, called base.  
  
  
  
  
Days went by in a blur. Monica found herself spending ore time in the the hospital with Carol and Maria than she could count. She would clean tears, help in the process of standing up, cook, clean, and, in her spare time, cry.  
  
  
The world had fractured like the windshield of that plane--starting in one point and branching into a thousand until it eventually succumbed and caved in.  
  
  
  
  
  
Carol looks very small buried in blankets and IV chords. Maria falls into a routine that feels more fragile than an ear bone. She wakes up at five, does all of the work that needs to be done for her to maintain her job at the Air Force, makes her way to the hospital at six, stays there until none, goes home, sleeps. She realizes that Monica suffers from this routine, and she realizes that it's wrong to have a ten-year-old make breakfast for herself and walk to school but Maria needs to do her job for the next ten years--military terms of service and all.  
  
  
  
After six months the visits become more sporadic. Maria'll go to the hospital twice a week, then once a week. The doctors are unsure if she'll ever wake up. The Air Force says they'll stop giving Carol leave soon, and she'll have lost the one thing she worked so hard to achieve.  
  
  
  
**1990**  
  
One year after the crash, Mara has a sort of epiphany. no. to use the word epiphany generally implies a religious experience, some king of imaginary grandiosity calling down from the sky to instruct you--this is not that. Maria has a realization

  
  
  
_Mom, When's Auntie Carol gonna wake up?_  
_I don't know, sweetheart._  
Carol's not going to wake up, is she?  
  
It's strange how the reality of adulthood echoes the worried meanderings of children.  
  
  
  
**1992**  
  
Maria doesn't talk about Carol after three years. She visits the hospital once a month, denies the pulling of the chords, doesn't move on.  
  
  
She still remembers the first night they kissed. They were at Pancho's, the weather reflecting the too-bright mood of nighttime. Carol had walked through the door to the place where Maria was standing, wrapped her arms around Maria's waist, and kissed her right there in the middle of a bar full of straight white homophobes. Someone yelled. there was the casul comment of 'fucking dykes.' Some guy in an american-flag patterned cowboy hat punched Carol in the face. Maria had taken Carol's hand in hers and booked it out of there faster than you can say 'fuck'. They ran until they reached a patch of woodland. Maria sat down beneath a tree and Carol followed. Maria kissed Carol's face clean of blood and bruises.  
  
That was after three years of friendship and a whole lot of hard work. They got peaceful years after that, too. Just--a different kind of peace.  
  
  
Life will never be truly peaceful for someone who works at the Air Force.  
  
  
**1995**  
  
Maria quits her job at the end of the year. Carol's long since been fired and Maria's exhausted. The celebration of Monica's twelfth birthday is as quiet as the years past. Monica tells Maria that she needs to move on. She gets a job at the bookstore in town, waits.  
  


  
  
Maria gets a call from the hospital the next day. Her toes curl in her shoes. She's dead, right? calls from hospitals are never good.  
  
  
At three in the morning, Maria shakes Monica awake and has her put on a coat. They get in the car, they drive. The atmosphere is quiet and tense, reminiscent of what Maria felt six long years ago.

  
they pull into the parking lot stumble through the misty darkness, and find their way to Carol's room (in the long-term wing. She was moved just two years ago from the ICU).  
Carol looks like shit, as is the norm for a person who hasn't moved of their own volition for six years. She opens one eye, and carefully extends her hand towards Monica. Monica takes it in her no-longer-smaller hands, and whispers a very quiet hello. There re moments that deserve to be shrouded in silence. Carol glances up, smiles at Maria in that sarcastic way she used to.  
  
Maria walks into the room so she's side-by-side with Monica, and lets a tear fall from her eye. She leans down, brushed her hand against Carol's face.  
Time continues on like normal.


End file.
